


Nutcracker

by TheStrange_One



Category: Nutcracker - Fandom
Genre: Am I doing this right?, Christmas, Wolf in Sheep's Clothing, mild violence, strong protag, villain surprise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-09-29 05:00:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17196986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheStrange_One/pseuds/TheStrange_One
Summary: Clara is helping decorate for Christmas when she finds an old, broken wooden toy. You can guess what happens next. :)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, I was sitting there in my post Christmas depression and thought, why not write a Christmas story? My first work on this site, constructive criticism always welcome, hope anyone (probably just one) who reads this enjoys.

Clara paused in her quest to dig out the Christmas ornaments. In among the shiny glass ornaments (that her mother said she was finally old enough to put on the tree) was a broken wooden toy. She pulled the three pieces (it looked like a head, half a torso, and the other half of the torso with the legs) out of the box and stared at them. There were faint marks, like old paint, all over it, the head had a tall hat with small tatters of cloth attached to it for trim, and the eyes had been carefully carved out. She could tell, even though all the paint was gone from them.

Quest to decorate the tree forgotten, she grabbed the three pieces and ran off to find her aunt. Her aunt was in the garage, using a pointed tool for some fine engraving on a piece of wood paneling. When she saw Clara she smiled, pushed up her safety glasses, and asked, “Finished the tree already?”

“Aunt Anna,” Clara said as she stepped closer. The wood that her aunt was carving had several finished rose blossoms and it looked like she was working on a bud. Hesitantly, she stepped forwards and handed the three pieces to her aunt. “I found this.”

“Oh,” said Aunt Anna as she took the head of the thing. “I remember this...it’s the nutcracker prince.”

“Can you fix him?” asked Clara as she leaned in. She knew better than to interrupt her aunt while she was working; her mother had made sure of it before leaving.

“Not me,” said Aunt Anna as she turned the head over. “For me, the magic is gone.” She looked up at Clara. “Maybe you can,” she said.

Clara took a step back. “Oh, I can’t!” she protested. “I don’t know how!”

Aunt Anna frowned. “Don’t be silly,” she scolded. “Of course you know how, I’ve taught you everything you need to know to do it.” She looked the little girl over and nodded. “Of course, it might be easier with your own tools,” she added as she got up off her stool and walked over to the corner with the scrap wood. Clara watched, mouth open, as Aunt Anna moved the scrap box to pull out a perfectly wrapped present, complete with fluffy bow. “Here we are,” she said with satisfaction as she took the box over to Clara. “Go ahead,” she said when the little girl hesitated, “open it.”

Clara’s hands moved towards the sparkly paper, almost of their own volition, but she held back. “It’s not Christmas yet,” she said.

“In three days. I think that’s close enough and since _I’m_ the one giving it to you, I think I can say it’s okay.”

Clara set the other two pieces of the doll aside as she grabbed the surprisingly heavy box. She looked up, suddenly reminded of something. “Aunt Anna,” she asked, “is Santa Claus real?”

Aunt Anna looked at the girl for a moment. “You know,” she said, “I’m not going to say.”

“What?”

“Because,” her aunt continued, “I want you to come to your own decision about it. Think about it; go over the facts and make your own conclusion.”

Clara scowled at the box in hands. “What if I’m wrong?”

“Then you’re wrong. You’ll learn better, one day, and you’ll be all the smarter for it.” Aunt Anna laughed. “Everyone is wrong sometimes. It’s best to get used to that while you’re young so it doesn’t come as such a shock later. Now, open your present.”

Clara didn’t need to be told twice. She ripped through the wrapping and saw—a plain cardboard box that didn’t have anything on it. Intrigued, she opened the box itself to see—tools. A tool set  _identical_ to Aunt Anna’s, except that it was in her size. She looked up with wide eyes to see that Aunt Anna was clearing off her workbench. 

“There you go,” said Aunt Anna with satisfaction as she patted the seat. “Go ahead and fix the nutcracker Clara. You can use any of the material in the shop. I’m off to finish the Christmas decorations before your mother gets back home.”

C lara slides into her aunt’s seat as she puts all three pieces of the nutcracker on the workbench in front of her, completely focused on the wood. Looking at it she can see a peg for a neck that would allow the nutcracker’s head to move back and forth when slipped into the hollow in the head. She decides the first thing she needs to do is reattach the torso. She tries to fit the two splintered pieces together, but no matter how she turns them they slide into one another in a tight fit that only needs a little bit of glue to hold. She puts it down and thinks before grabbing the sander.

The sander, a hand-held instrument that fit almost perfectly into her palm with a sheet of sandpaper attached to one side, rasps over the wood as she smooths it down.  Still, when it’s all sanded, the proportions aren’t quite right—perhaps she could use a piece of wood for the middle, and paint it like a belt!

She got down from the seat and raced to the scrap wood bin, sorting through it until she found what she was looking for. A thin slice of round wood—just thick enough for her purpose—and another piece of the same kind that she could use for stabilizers. She remembered Aunt Anna telling her not to rely on glue alone.

Inside the box was a small, hand-held drill powered only by muscles. Aunt Anna didn’t like power tools, and had taught Clara how to use the small hand tools. These were much easier for Clara to use, because they were the right size for her hands.

She drilled five holes, carved out five stabilizing pillars, and put a dab of wood glue on the ends to put it together. The torso (and belt) slid together like they’d always belonged together. She quickly put it between two clamps to keep the pieces in place until the glue dried while she moved onto the head. 

She removed the tattered bits of fabric from the hat portion and then went searching through the materials until she found something that would work—a piece of black satin. She wasn’t entirely certain why Aunt Anna kept a box of fabric scraps in her workstation, but she was glad of it at the moment.  She carefully used a brush to put glue on the wood of the hat before laying the satin against it and smoothing out the bubbles to create a perfect fit. She looked at it—and frowned. There was nothing she could do to make the top look professional.

She got down from the seat, and went to find her aunt. She stopped and stared when she reached the living room. There was silver and gold garland along the top of the walls, where they met the ceiling, little snow villages on top of the entertainment center shelves, a small nativity scene where the animals, Joseph, Mary, and the baby Jesus sat in a barn on one side of the fireplace mantel while the three wise men made their trek towards them. The way they were positioned made it look like the star at the top of the tree was the Ancient Star, guiding the wise men. The tree itself was decorated with garland, tinsel, and ornaments.

Aunt Anna stood in the center of the room, eyeing the whole thing. “I don’t know,” she said as Clara took in the place. “It doesn’t seem quite—Christmassy enough.”

“It’s amazing!” Clara burbled.

Aunt Anna turned towards her niece and grinned. “Really? You don’t think it’s lacking? How’s the nutcracker coming?”

“Oh.” Suddenly realizing that she should have helped Clara hid the nutcracker head behind her back. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” asked Aunt Anna. “Enjoying your new toy? Fixing an old one?”

“Do you think Mom will be mad?” asked Clara anxiously.

“I think the look on your mother's face when she sees it will be priceless,” Aunt Anna told her with a grin. “Now, what’s the problem?”

She timidly held out the head. “I don’t know how to make the top all smooth,” she explained.

Aunt Anna took the nutcracker’s head and one of Clara’s hands. “Let’s see what we can do,” she said. "First," she said firmly, "you'll put on your safety goggles."


	2. Clara's Mother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara gets home from work to find her daughter had turned into a little copy of her sister--and is not pleased.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, little warning here. Nothing explicit (or I'd have tags up) but I have implied (if anyone complains I'll edit and add the appropriate tags) parental death and alcoholic recovery. Like I said, nothing explicit, just implied. Thought I'd mention it.

The door flung open with a slam and a woman walked in. “I’m ho—ome!” she trilled. The house, though lavishly decorated for Christmas, appeared to be empty. She strode  through the house looking for the two who were supposed to be there—but nothing. Finally, as she was passing the door to the garage, she heard giggling. She opened the door to peek in—and stared.

Clara, her daughter, was sitting in a tall stool that Anna, her sister, had designed. The girl was dressed identically to Anna—right down the safety goggles and the tool belt. She took a deep breath and strode forwards to glare at her sister. “Excuse me?” she demanded. “I asked you to help out around Christmas, not turn my daughter into a copy of you!”

Anna, not the least bit repentant, rolled her eyes. “C’mon sis,” she drawled in that hideous backwater accent she’d taken to sporting, “no harm done.” She casually lifts Clara off the stool and puts her on the floor. “Off you go,” she advised the child, “and let your mother yell at me for a bit. She’ll feel better that way.”

She watched, heart in her throat, as her daughter looked up at her—at  _her—_ in fear before running off. Then she turned to her sister. “And?” she demanded.

Anna sighed and leaned against the workbench. “And what, Rachel?” she asked, ditching the phony accent for the moment. “She’s not turning into a little copy of me.”

“She’s wearing the exact same outfit!”

“Which means nothing.” The calm, reasonable voice enraged Rachel beyond reason. Anna sees the naked rage on her sister’s face and sighs again. “She found something she wanted to restore. Actually, she asked _me_ to fix it for her. I gave her her Christmas present early so that she could work on it.”

“And the clothes?” demanded Rachel.

“And the clothes are the best thing for working with wood. Unlike most of her clothes, they will take substantial abuse.”

“Abuse?”

“She’s a kid,” Anna said. “Kids are hard on their clothes.” She sighed and added, “Or they’re supposed to be. Don’t you remember the scrapes we used to get into?”

“Don’t you remember all the times we almost died!”

“We didn’t.” Rachel looked into Anna’s eyes and saw that her sister was full of compassion. “We _didn’t_. And letting Clara let loose a little isn’t going to kill her either.”

Rachel sagged to the floor but Anna caught her. “I can’t lose her!” she whispered as she cried into her sister’s shoulder. “I can’t lose her too.”

“You won’t,” Anna soothed her sister. She considered the statement. “At least not until she’s thirteen and hates all adults.”

“Oh God!” wails Rachel as she clutched her sister with renewed horror. “We’ll be monsters!”

“No more than our parents were.” Anna rubbed Rachel’s back gently. “Feeling any better?” she asked.

Rachel nodded and stood up, Anna helping to steady her. “Thank you.”

“What are sisters for?” Anna asked. “Come on, we’ve got food waiting.”

“Food?”

“Surely you don’t think that decorating for Christmas is the _only_ thing I did today,” teased Anna as the two of them headed back into the house.

They were met by Clara, who had changed into her favorite red satin dress complete with white tights, black shoes, and done hair. Clara curtsied as the two women came into the house and then stood, trembling. “I’m sorry Mother,” the girl said contritely.

“Oh, no, Honey,” said Rachel as she reached over and hugged her daughter. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. If you want to wear the other clothes,” she told the girl, “then you can. As long as it’s something _you_ want to do, and not something someone _else_ wants to do.”

Clara was silent for a moment. “Does this mean I can wear jeans to church?”

“No.” Rachel gently smoothed some of Clara’s hair out of her face as Anna laughed. “You know better than that.”

“You opened the door,” Anna laughed.

“Let’s have dinner,” said Rachel, ignoring the comment.

Anna had made lasagna. “Your favorite,” Anna said with a grin as she pulled the food out of the oven and served it. “Mom’s recipe,” she added.

“You didn’t make garlic biscuits, did you?” Anna could make lasagna with the expertise of a pro—but simple garlic and cheese biscuits were beyond her.

“Heck no. I made salad. Ranch or Italian?”

The three of them at in the kitchen, to avoid getting any red sauce on the pristine white linen Christmas table cloth with red runner that was on the table. “On second thought,” Anna said thoughtfully as she ate, “I probably should have waited to decorate the table.”

“The whole house looks good,” Clara says hurriedly.

“Didn’t you help?” asked Rachel, curious, but not upset.

Clara looked away and Anna laughed. “She started to, but then she found something that completely distracted her.”

“Would you show me?” asked Rachel. “After dinner?”

Clara nodded and said, “I found him in the box of decorations for the tree,” she said happily. He was all broken, but Aunt Anna said I could fix him—and I did!”

Rachel, who couldn't sew a button back onto a shirt without stabbing herself multiple times with a needle, nods. “That was well done!” she approved. Clara grinned and finished her food.

“May I get it now?” she asked politely.

“Of course,” said Rachel with a smile. Clara grinned again and rushed off, her shoes clicking against the hardwood floors of the house. “I bet she changes clothes while she’s at it,” she tells her sister.

“No bet,” Anna replied as she took a sip of her dinner drink. “By the way—there’s something you should know about what she found.”

“Oh?” asked Rachel—before she realized. Clara found it in a box of Christmas decorations. A broken toy that _Anna_ could not fix. She looked at Anna, eyes widening. “No.”

“Oh, yes.” Anna took another sip.

“But I thought we—”

“We did.”

“Then how—”

“We’re Drosselmeyers, Rachel. All three of us. I’m not surprised he found her, I’m surprised he found her so soon. I think we were older.”

“We were the same age,” Rachel muses. “It just _feels_ like we were older.”

“This is a good thing,” she pointed out.

“It’s a dangerous thing!”

“But we both know that it won’t kill her. It _can’t_ kill her, or let her be killed.”

“That’s—true.” Rachel relaxes as she leans against the counter. Out of respect for Anna she wasn’t drinking her customary after dinner wine. She grins at her sister. “Maybe she’ll even have fun,” she added.

Anna grinned back and raised her own glass in toast. “May she have lots a fun.”

“Cheers.” Rachel clinked her glass to Anna’s and looked at the door of the kitchen just in time to see Clara excitedly running up to them to show her mother the toy she had lovingly restored. She was also in the same clothes that she’d been wearing when Rachel had gotten home—complete with safety goggles perched on her head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone, and I mean anyone, reads this--please comment. I'd like to see how people like it.


	3. Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara wakes up to a strange sound in the middle of the night. What could it be?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heed the age restriction for this one. There is violence (suitable for thirteen and up), but may not be suitable for younger viewers. Summary at the end, if you want to skip.

A strange sound woke Clara from her sleep. She sat up in her bed, blinking as the covers fell off her. She must have fallen asleep in her clothes, because she was still wearing them. Well, everything except the tool belt and the safety goggles.

A thump caught her attention, and she paused, trying to pin down the source of the noise. What was that sound? She reached to her table and turned on the lamp—to see a rat with her freshly repaired nutcracker prince. “Hey!” she yelled at the rat.

The furry thing dropped the nutcracker, looked up at Clara, and _ran_. Faster than she thought it could go the rat was gone. Clara jumped out of bed and snatched the nutcracker off the floor, checking to make sure he was okay.

How had a _rat_ gotten into the house? Both her mother and Aunt Anna _hated_ rats! At any indication that there _might_ be a rat near the house they both laid out traps and poison while Aunt Anna reinforced the barrier of steel wool that she had laid in the crawlspace under the house. They were so, so careful—so how had one gotten in?

The nutcracker (sporting a brand new gold-painted belt where the torso had been fixed) seemed fine. There were no teeth marks marring her hard work, all the glued on cloth was where it was supposed to be, and it looked good. It did; she didn’t think she was bragging by thinking she did a good job fixing it.

Satisfied that the nutcracker was fine she looked through her open door at the hall. Should she wake her mother or Aunt Anna up to tell them about the rat? No, because she couldn't prove she’d seen it. Besides, she wasn’t certain the rat had actually done something wrong. She loved her mother and her aunt—but she didn’t share their unilateral hatred of rats. Her best friend, Kristie, had two huge pet white rats that she enjoyed playing with when she visited. Maybe the rat was someone's pet that had gotten lost. She needed to see.

First, she needed to put on her slippers. The floor was too cold to be standing there barefoot. She padded over to her bed and slipped on the slippers (kindly left beside the bed for her) and turned to leave—when she hesitated. She turned to see her brand new tool belt on the table by her bed, with the safety goggles on top of it. She put both of them on, and pushed the goggles up like Aunt Anna did when she wasn’t currently working at the bench. Then she headed out.

Once in the hall she could hear more sounds—soft clicking, scratching, and little thumps. She frowned. Kristie’s rats didn’t make sounds like that—maybe it was a wild rat and she needed to get her mother. Or, maybe the rat really _was_ a lost pet and was desperately trying to find its owner. It could be trapped and desperately trying to escape!

Worried for the poor little animal she ran down the hall into the living room—and stared. There were rats in the Christmas tree, rats in the villages Aunt Anna had put up, and even a rat trying to take baby Jesus out of his crib! “Hey!” she called again as she glared at them.

All the rats turned to look at her with their eyes. They were about the same size as Kristie’s rats—but there were a lot more of them. They also weren’t white like Kristie’s were, but everything from sleek gray to mottled brown. They stared, the electric candles reflecting against their beady eyes.

Suddenly frightened she took a step back as she clutched the nutcracker against her chest. She gasped when it moved. She looked down to see the painted wooden face scowling at the rats. “Back you fiends!” the doll shouted in a high, tinny voice. “Back now! Back where you came from!” The doll wriggled out of her arms and raised its sword (that she had painstakingly painted silver) at the rats.

The doll _was moving_. It was moving _all by itself_. She wasn’t sure what was more frightening; the nutcracker moving around all on its own or the horde of rats invading the living room.

The nutcracker raised its sword above its head and called out, “Soldiers! To me! We shall destroy these vicious vermin!”

Clara gasped as she heard a rhythmic thumping and turned to see—wooden soldiers, just like the nutcracker doll she’d repaired, marching towards her. She danced out of the way and watched as they marched into the living room—and into battle. The soldiers stabbed with their swords, whacked with their wooden fists, and kicked with their wooden feet. The rats bit, scratched, and kicked. Blood and splinters marred the floor and Clara looked on, in horror, at the carnage in front of her. She covered her mouth and tried to even her breathing. She didn’t want them to notice her—not either side. Keeping her back to the wall she took a careful step towards the hall.

Her tool belt caught on the doorjamb with an audible thunk.

The nutcracker noticed.

He turned, reached into a pocket she hadn’t designed, pulled out an orb, and threw it at her. As the thing traveled towards her it grew until looked as fragile as a soap bubble with a single, tiny light in its center—and then light surrounded Clara, blinding her. She yelled and threw up her arms to protect herself—only to have the light harmlessly retreat.

Warily she opened her eyes to peer between her arms—to see that she was face to face with the nutcracker and they were the same size! She yelped and tried to back away—only to fall. She coughed at the fine white powder (where had that come from) that billowed up around her.

“Are you all right, Lady Drosselmeyer?” Clara opened her eyes to see a cute boy, a couple years older than she was, holding out a hand for her. His brown hair framed perfectly shaped brown eyes and face.

“I—I don’t know,” Clara said hesitantly as she took his hand and allowed herself to be hauled up. She was standing in a field of powder. She’d say it was a type of snow, except that snow was cold and this stuff was warm. It was also silky to the touch. “Where are we?” she asked looking around as she noticed that there were trees covered in what seemed to be giant gumdrops and gummy bears, huge candy canes and lollipops sticking out of the ground, like they were growing, and odd sticks that looked like—pretzels?

The boy bowed, his tall hat flopping over his eyes. “Welcome to Toyland, Lady Drosselmeyer.”

Clara stared at the hat for a moment. There was something familiar about that had. “Clara,” she corrected absently as she tried to figure out where she’d seen the hat before. “My name is Clara.”

The boy took the hat off and held it in front of him—and she saw it. She saw the marks the brush had made when she smoothed the fabric against the glue, to make sure there were no bubbles. She gasped and looked up at him. “You—you’re the nutcracker!” she said.

The boy bowed once again. “At your service, my lady.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clara wakes up in the middle of the night to see a rat trying to steal her nutcracker. She rescues the nutcracker and follows it to the living room where she sees an army of rats all over the Christmas decorations. The nutcracker in her arms comes to life, summons a regiment of toy soldiers, and they go to war with the rats. Clara tries to escape the war, only to be magically transported to Candy Mountain in Toyland and met with a strange boy. The boy, she quickly realizes, is the nutcracker.


	4. Land of the Sugar Plum Fairy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life in the sugary sweet land of the Sugar Plum Fairy isn't as sweet as it first sounds...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, so I clean the cappuccino machines at work--and I hate them. I think it bled into the story a little bit...

Clara stared at the flames licking at the outsides of the marshmallows. The soldiers had picked the marshmallows off the trees, put them in a huge pile, and set them on fire. She was sitting on what seemed to be a giant pretzel log (without salt)—and it was not comfortable. In drifts, all around them, similar to snow, was powdered sugar.

Like any other child her age, she loved candy. There were times when she thought there would never be a time when she was tired of it. Having had a “dinner” that was melted gumdrops, and smelling the burning marshmallows, she suddenly craved salt, meat, vegetables— _anything_ but candy.

She turned to the boy—nutcracker—and stared at him for a moment. She knew she wasn’t dreaming (she’d tried pinching herself and other tricks designed to make her wake up), so she was going to have face reality sooner or later. “I want to make sure I understand what’s happening.”

“Yes, Lady Clara,” the nutcracker said with a smile.

Clara twitched. She didn’t like being called “Lady Clara”, but when she’d asked the nutcracker to stop he’d started calling her “Princess Clara.” She wasn’t a princess any more than she was a lady—but being called a lady was more bearable somehow. She took a deep breath and continued. “You’re a prince,” she said flatly.

“ _I remember this...it’s the nutcracker prince.”_

For a moment she could swear she’d heard her aunt’s voice. Could it be—that Aunt Anna knew this would happen? No, Aunt Anna would never have done anything that would allow _rats_ into the house, not with the way both she and her mother hated them.

“And you came to my world—”

“The human realm,” the nutcracker supplied helpfully.

“...right. The human world in order to find the descendant of Drosselmeyer.”

“Yes,” said the nutcracker smugly.

She wanted to smack him on his perfectly smug chin, but her mother said that such physical displays were beneath a girl who wasn’t in mortal danger. “Why?” she asked, puzzled. Oh, she knew that the family name was Drosselmeyer—her aunt, mother, and grandmother mentioned it on a regular basis (usually in the phrase “A Drosselmeyer never gives up”)—but she didn’t understand why the nutcracker thought that _she_ was the descendant he was looking for. Her extended family was huge—her mother and aunt had five brothers.

“Only a true descendant of Drosselmeyer has the magic to restore the kingdom.”

“Magic.” Clara hadn’t believed in magic for at least six months. It was hard to—after all that had happened. She pushed the memories away; they wouldn't help her now. “What makes you think I have magic?”

“You fixed me,” the nutcracker said, as if it was obvious.

Once again Clara was struck by the desire to smack him. Once again, she throttled it down. She looked around the fire at the soldiers. “If the nutcracker—”

“Prince,” the nutcracker corrected with a frown.

“Whatever,” said Clara dismissively. “If the Prince was broken by traveling to my world, how did the lot of _you_ make it over?”

Two of the soldiers glanced at the nutcracker before answering. “With the Prince on the other side,” one of them told her, “the Fairy was able to get us through to help with the rats.”

Another soldier spat a dent into the powdered sugar all around them. “Stupid rats,” he muttered with obvious hatred.

Clara recognized it because it was the same hatred that her mother and aunt showed towards rats. A hatred, now that she thought of it, that none of her uncles shared. Have they been to Toyland before? Been here? It seemed impossible—but at the same time it made sense.

“Why?” she asked again. “What do you think I can do?”

“You can recharge the Imagination.”

“I can what?” asked Clara in shock.

“Recharge the Imagination,” the nutcracker repeated. “The imagination is the power source for all of Toyland—it runs the weather, the food, and even its people. If it isn’t recharged on a regular basis, Toyland starts to die.”

Clara looked around. “Is that why everything is made of sugar?”

The soldiers laughed and even the nutcracker chuckled. “Of course not,” said the nutcracker. “Everything is made of sugar because this is the land of the Sugar Plum Fairy!”

“Sugar Plum...Fairy?” asked Clara uncertainly. The name sounded absolutely ridiculous. She looked around—at the nameless soldiers (who had literally told Clara they had no names), to the nutcracker prince (who also seemed to have no real name), to the burning marshmallows of their campfire, the pretzel logs they were all sitting on, the powdered sugar that coated the back of her throat in a sticky, horrific mess—and pinched herself again. Just to make sure she really wasn’t dreaming.

She wasn’t.

The nutcracker frowned at Clara. “Is that something humans do?” he asked in confusion. “Hurt themselves.”

“Only when they’re trying to wake up,” Clara replied. She looked up at the sky. The sky, which was bright blue with darker and lighter striations in it—just like blue saltwater taffy.

“Are you asleep?”

“I wish.” She looked back at the nutcracker. “Where are we going now?”

“To the Candy Palace,” said the nutcracker. “The Sugar Plum Fairy wants to meet you.”

“We’ll have to pass through Fudge Village,” a soldier pointed out.

The nutcracker nodded grimly. “We would have anyway,” he told them. His voice and face hardened. “We need to make sure there are no _rats_ in the village.”

The vicious way the nutcracker said that made the hair on Clara’s head prickle, like it was trying to stand up. There was something so hateful in the word that she wondered what was going on.

She looked around and realized that she was surrounded by _soldiers_ and the weapons that had looked like toys in her world—were very real here. She remembered the bloody battle in her living room, and fought a shudder. Changing the subject she asked, “Is Fudge Village made of fudge?”

The soldiers, including their prince, burst out laughing. “Of course not!” the nutcracker told her, eyes sparkling with humor. “Fudge wouldn't retain its shape for building!”

“Of course not,” she agreed weakly.

“They only decorate with it,” one of the soldiers supplied.

“Of course they do,” said Clara with a weak laugh. “What was I thinking?”

“Well, Fudge Village is over a fudge vein,” the nutcracker explained. “They mine it and sell it to other parts of Toyland that don’t have fudge.” He looked at her, suddenly completely serious. “We try to look after them, and keep them safe.”

_Safe_ meaning  _protect them from rats_ . The concept still bothered her, but not for reasons she could articulate. Changing the subject she asked, “Are there nuts in the fudge?”

“They’re filtered out pretty well,” the nutcracker told her.

Meaning there would be nuts  _without_ fudge. Something that wasn’t as hideously sweet as the powdered sugar coating her throat. Speaking of which, “Is there any water nearby?” she asked.

“Of course!” one of the soldiers said brightly. “Let me show you to the river.” She followed him away from the campsite and towards a rushing river. “Here we are! Fresh from the snows!” he said excitedly.

Clara eyed the “water” warily. In her experience water should never be that shade of white—but she was thirsty. She walked to the edge of the bank, knelt, and reached towards it to cup some in her hands for a drink.

“Careful—it’s cold.”

It was cold. It also wasn’t water. From the taste, it was melted ice cream—which made sense given that  _everything else_ seemed to be candy, sugar, or sugar infused. It wasn’t that she didn’t  _like_ ice cream—she did. She just felt overloaded by all the sugar around her.  And now her hands were all sticky. Her body, her clothes, were all sticky. She was afraid to even  _think_ about her hair—at least it was put up and held in place by the safety goggles.

The safety goggles. Maybe she could use them to protect her eyes from all this powdered sugar. She reached up, pulled them over her eyes—then sighed and pushed them back up. They were just as covered in sugar as the rest of her, and she had no way to clean them.

“Are you ready Lady Clara?” asked the soldier.

She’d had enough. If  _nothing_ else, she would get them to use her name—just her name, no “Princess” or “Lady” or anything like that. “My name,” she said firmly, “is Clara. It is  _not_ ‘Lady Clara’, it is not ‘Princess Clara’, just Clara. Nothing else. Clara. Clar-a. Do you understand?”

The soldier saluted. “Yes Lady Clara,” he said brightly.

Clara just felt tired. “All right. Are we making camp?” she asked. Just because they’d made a campfire didn’t mean they were going to rest.

“Of course! The prince thinks it is far too late in the day to keep going.”

Clara looked up at the blue taffy sky. “How can he tell?” she asked curiously. The soldier laughed as though he found the question funny, and led the way back to camp.

And, back at camp, another problem came up. The nutcracker and the soldiers were simply lying down in the powdered sugar. Clara tried to copy them—only to sit up coughing to expel the powdered sugar that tried to get into her lungs.  She glared at the soldiers and the nutcracker who were looking at her strangely. Didn’t they need to  _breathe_ ?

She sat up and braced herself on one of the pretzel logs, grateful they  _didn’t_ have salt to create more uncomfortable bumps. As she did she noticed a shadow approaching and looked up at the sky to see darkness just moving across it in a steady line. Suddenly, it was dark. As she stared at the sky little lights appeared, almost like stars.

She burrowed her head on her arms—which were gritty from the powdered sugar that clung to them. According to the nutcracker, the Sugar Plum Fairy lived in a palace. Hopefully the palace would have real water, and she’d be able to clean herself up a bit. She didn’t like feeling grimy.

She muttered to herself as she fell asleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, the nutcracker and the soldiers are not human. Feel free to comment and ask questions--I love feedback.


	5. Fudge Village

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara's group arrives at Fudge Village and meet the people who work there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not really much to add. This chapter is more about exploring the world around them than much else.

Fudge Village may not have been made of fudge, but it  _was_ made of gingerbread. All of the houses were made of gingerbread and decorated with smoothed fudge that almost looked like chocolate icing. Clara remembered what the nutcracker said; the village filtered nuts out of the fudge before they used it for decorations. 

She didn’t particularly  _like_ nuts, but the sugary meals the soldiers and the nutcracker were giving her were starting to make her feel sick. She remembered Aunt Anna explained once that it’s possible to eat so much sugar a person gets sick. The blood gets too thick, or something. She hadn’t really paid much attention and Aunt Anna had been lecturing someone else anyway. She  _did_ remember that Aunt Anna said the cure was good food,  _real_ food. Nuts were real food, weren’t they?

As soon as they reached the village the nutcracker ordered his soldiers. “Spread out and search. Make sure there aren’t any vermin taking up space.” Clara peeled away from the group. “Where are you going Lady Clara?”

“I’m searching,” she told him dismissively. She didn’t tell him what she was really searching for—the nuts processed from the fudge. They had to be around _somewhere_. She wandered between the gingerbread houses (big enough to actually hold people the nutcracker’s size), and looked for any sign of the nuts. Where would the people who lived there put them? Actually, scratch that—where were the people? The only ones she saw were the other soldiers, going through the village.

She rounded a corner to see a rat. It was clearly terrified, shaking and pressing itself against the gingerbread wall, it looked at her with wide, round eyes that looked—human. In fact, the rat itself looked a lot like a human. It stood on two legs, had a relatively flat face, and was wearing a jacket. 

“Lady Clara!” one of the soldiers called.

The rat whimpered. It clutched its tail and closed its eyes, shivering. It huddled against itself.

“Lady Clara!” the new voice was the nutcracker; loud, and insistent. “Lady Clara, have you found something?”

“No,” Clara called back as she stepped around the corner of the house to come almost face to face with the nutcracker. “I haven’t found any nuts.”

“Nuts?”

“Nuts,” she replied firmly. “Humans—which I am—eat nuts. Clearly you—whatever you lot are—don’t. So I am looking for the nuts so that I can eat them.”

“Oh—the nuts are all burned.”

“Burned.” Of course they were. Of course it wouldn't be that easy to get some food—real food and not all this sugar that was everywhere. 

“Yes,” said the nutcracker. “They heat the gingerbread houses very well.” He turned and started walking away, Clara following him without even looking back at the rat.

“Speaking of the houses,” she said looking around, “where are the people?”

“People?”

Clara waved a hand to the households around her. “You said that this is a mining village that mines fudge, right? Where are all the people?”

The nutcracker laughed. “Oh!” he said with sudden realization. “The toys! They’re in the mines, of course.”

Clara had a mental image of teddy bears and clowns wielding pickaxes like the dwarfs from Snow White. “The toys mine fudge,” she said, mulling it over.

“Oh, yes. From what I understand, they have a difficult time prying it out of the brownie, but they manage very well.”

“Oh.” She thinks about the rat for a moment, hoping it had been able to use the distraction to escape. Given the nutcracker’s obvious hatred for rats, she didn’t think the rat would fair well with the soldiers. It hadn’t seemed destructive, not like the rats in her living room. And she hadn’t liked the war at all—so she felt no guilt for not telling the nutcracker about the rat she discovered.

“Don’t worry,” the nutcracker said. “The Sugar Plum Fairy knows humans well. I’m sure she’ll have some human food for you.”

Clara doubted it. The  mere existence of a world made only of candy showed that she had no idea what was best for a human—but maybe the world wasn’t  _made_ for humans. Maybe the toys ran on sugar. Certainly the nutcracker and soldiers seemed to.

A t the very least she should be able to take a shower and get all the sugar off. “How far away is the palace?”  she asked curiously.

“Not that far at all,” the nutcracker replied. He pointed down the main road (the village’s _only_ road, as far as she could tell) and added, “You can see the top of the palace from here!”

Clara looked where the nutcracker was pointing—and saw nothing. The nutcracker and the soldiers must have better eyesight than she did. “ Can’t wait,” she said.

“The toys are returning from the mines!” one of the soldiers reported excitedly. They all ran and Clara, having nothing better to do at the moment, followed them.

The toys that mined the fudge were not teddy bears or clowns. They were trucks. Dumpster trucks,  pickup trucks, bulldozers, trucks she didn’t know the names of but had seen when the school was being rebuilt. The fronts of the trucks had faces that broke out into grins when they saw the soldiers and the nutcracker.

The pickup truck in the front yelled out, “Prince! Soldiers! Welcome back!” The others in the line began to welcome the group. As they came into the center of the village Clara couldn't help but notice that each of them was about the size of one of the gingerbread houses.  If they were too big to get into the houses, then what were the houses for?

The nutcracker went up to the truck in the lead and spoke to it. “After you process the fudge, do you mind giving the nuts to Lady Clara? She’s human, you see, and humans...eat nuts?”

The truck rolled its eyes and laughed. “No problem Prince!” it said as the other trucks laughed. “Cold gingerbread is just as good as warm gingerbread!” One of the trucks in the line drove by a house—and took a bite out of the side. Of course the houses were for eating.

Clara was still staring at the  house after the truck drove away when she noticed something odd. There, at the edges of the bite, pale brown was starting to show. As she watched the pale brown seeped through the bite and slowly darkened to the same shade as the rest of the gingerbread house.

“What’s wrong Human Lady Clara?” asked one of the trucks.

“Did you know that your gingerbread houses grow back?” she asked it.

The truck laughed. “Of course they do!” it said. “Where else would gingerbread come from?”

“Where I’m from, it gets made in the oven,” Clara replied.

“The oven?”

“Aunt Anna has a particularly good recipe,” Clara explained. “That’s how all human sweets come to be—we make them.”

The truck’s eyes flashed in surprise, blinding her for a moment. “Being human sounds hard.”

Clara looked around as the trucks all dumped their burdens of fudge (complete with nuts) into another toy with some kind of rotating blades that cuts the fudge into a smooth, black ribbon and  spat the nuts out to the side, where one of the soldiers was catching it in a bucket. “Sometimes,” she said looking at the bizarre sight, “it’s very hard.”

“And the first thing we did,” the nutcracker was saying, “was search the village for rats. Even Lady Clara searched,” he added proudly.

The truck next to Clara shifted from tire to tire nervously. “And—did you find anything?” it asked her hesitantly.

“Not me,” she assured it. “ _I_ was looking for nuts.” The truck laughed. “So, why _was_ it here?” she asked quietly.

The truck rolled back a little bit. After thinking for a moment, Clara realized that was how the truck flinched. “There are—tasks,” the truck said slowly, as quietly as Clara, “that need hands.”

“I can see that.”

“The soldiers hate rats,” the truck added.

“I noticed.” 

“Are you going to see the Sugar Plum Fairy?” asked the truck.

“That’s where the nutcracker is taking me,” Clara said. “He says she knows a lot about humans, so I should be able to get some food I can eat there.”

“Oh, yes! The Sugar Plum Fairy knows _everything_! I’m sure she can help Human Lady Clara!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to comment! Ahem, I mean--comment please? Someone? Anyone?


	6. The Sugar Plum Fairy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara's group reaches the palace of the Sugar Plum Fairy, and set off on a new adventure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, work's getting hectic, giving me less time for writing--still trying to finish this up for people. I think I'm maybe halfway through? Dunno. Posting when I can--which I don't see as much of a problem since not many people seem to be reading this. Tally-ho!

Clara had once watched a cooking show with her Aunt Anna (who’d had the strange idea of building a gingerbread house with  _real_ sugar-glass windows and a place for a light inside the thing to make it glow. The two of them had watched the chefs on television turn mere sugar water (and sometimes sugar ice malt) into clear panes for their gingerbread houses. Aunt Anna had never been able to get the technique to work for her, so she’d made something else instead to be the feast’s centerpiece. 

The palace of the Sugar Plum Fairy not only looked like someone had succeeded in making a sugar-glass construction, but had also added purple food coloring to the mixture before it set. The planes were jagged, but leaned against each other and there seemed to be more of the mixture holding the whole thing together. It was beautiful, with the soft light making it glow from within.

It also did absolutely nothing to make Clara think the person who owned this thing would know anything about what humans needed or their diets. She reached into the bag the trucks had given her and pulled out another nut. The nuts were still way too sweet (given the way sugar was coating  _everything_ ), but they weren’t as sweet as the gumdrops the soldiers were still melting for meals. 

A loud bang, that made her jump, signaled a clear purple panel swinging open. “See?” the nutcracker said excitedly. “The Sugar Plum Fairy is expecting us!”

“Hmm.” Clara was finding it hard to get excited. Or move. Or think much, for that matter. She dimly recognized these were bad signs, but she couldn't remember why. Or muster up the energy to care.

The nutcracker was worried enough for the both of them. “Come Lady Clara,” he ordered as he grabbed one of her hands and practically dragged her into the palace. “The Sugar Plum Fairy will know how to help!”

She looked at the bag (secured by a shoulder strap that she felt certain was made by the rat that lived in Fudge Village) that was no longer bulging with nuts. She’d eaten quite a few of them and she didn’t think she was getting what she needed from the sugar-soaked nuts. It was insane—she just wanted some real food. Or water—plain water with no sugar would be good, instead of the ice cream runoff that the soldiers seemed to think was water.

The inside of the palace sparkled. The walls shimmered in the light, which came from huge, elaborate chandeliers. Each chandelier had its own theme; one was clearly done in a snow theme, one looked like a mass of fruits falling from a horn of plenty (which made her mouth water—she’d  _love_ some fruit right now),  snowmen, toys, and so on. She followed the nutcracker while she looked around. The walls seemed to have carvings on them, but she couldn't quite make them out. 

Suddenly the high, narrow halls gave way to a huge, open room. The floor in this room wasn’t clear, but a solid dark purple with light striations that pointed towards the huge throne in the center of the room. The throne itself was clear purple-blue, darker than the rest of the palace that she’d seen, and  decorated with two huge plums (covered, of course, in sugar) on either side of it.

The fairy (the huge wings told Clara it was a fairy, anyway) sat on the throne in a dress just a shade paler than the throne itself, made in tiers covered in beaded lace. The fairy’s wings looked much like the outer walls of the palace—as though they’d been made from clear sugar crystals in the shapes of petals. The fairy’s face was soft, round, and she smiled at the child and her companions. The smile looked both warming and nurturing at the same time. “Beautiful,” Clara breathed.

Suddenly Clara  _felt_ every single grain of sugar stuck to her skin, how stiff with the stuff her clothes were, and she felt  _disgusting._ She shrank back behind the nutcracker and the fairy laughed. “There’s no need to be shy,” the Sugar Plum Fairy told the girl as she stood up from her throne and descended down the steps towards the group. “I know very well what my world is like, and you’re the descendant of Drosselmeyer.”  As she got closer Clara noticed that her  eyes sparkled and were the same color as the throne.

“I don’t know if I can recharge the imagination,” she said warily as she took a step back. For a brief moment she was filled with terror.

“Of course you can!” said the nutcracker.

The Sugar Plum Fairy laughed and the terror dissipated. “Don’t worry,” she told the child she towered over. “You’ll know what to do when the time comes. Now!” She clapped her hands and doors all around the throne room opened as toys (this time really dolls and teddy bears and even the odd clown) filed into the room carrying tables, plates, and  sweets. Cakes, candies, fudge, things she couldn't name all filled the tables to almost overflowing—and she didn’t want to touch any of it. 

After traveling through a land were the very foundation was made of sugar (and under a taffy sky), the last thing she wanted was  _more_ sugar.  She wanted fruit. She wanted vegetables. She wanted meat. She was even craving potatoes—and she  _hated_ potatoes! But anything, anything at all would be better than this unrelenting diet of  _sugar_ .

“Let’s feast, everyone!” the Sugar Plum Fairy burbled happily.

And Clara had to eat too. If she didn’t, she’d be rude, and she didn’t want to be rude. Her mother had raised her to be as polite as possible.  When one of the teddy bears handed her a plate she took it and watched what the others were doing. They were taking their plates to the table, filling the plates up, and then wandering away to eat. She was slightly surprised to realize that the soldiers could chew food—everything she’d seen them eat was soup.

She followed them and looked over the mountain of food on the table, trying to find  _something_ she wouldn't mind eating.  She paused when she got to a plate full of round yellow things. She wasn’t entirely certain what they were, but she took one from the plate.

“Oh, no,” the Sugar Plum Fairy said, suddenly right behind her. “Lemon drops are far too tart to eat by themselves!” One of the serving toys handed her a goblet with clear liquid in it and she put the yellow orb into it. With a careful stir of a spoon, the lemon drop dissolved into the liquid. “Here you are!” she said happily as she handed the goblet to Clara.

Not wanting to be rude, Clara took it—and nearly choked on the overwhelming sweetness that had just a hint of lemon.  She forced a smile. “Thank you,” she said weakly. The fairy smiled and sailed off to speak to more toys.

T here was nowhere Clara could feasibly dump the heavily sweetened water, not without being rude. The toys around her were gathering in groups—but it seemed oddly quiet. Looking around she spotted why—the only toys actually talking were the soldiers and the nutcracker, who was talking to the Sugar Plum Fairy. The other toys were standing in groups, like they were talking to each other, but they weren’t making any noise.

Another oddity—the soldiers and the nutcracker looked like—well, they looked like  _people_ . They didn’t look like toys, like the teddy bears and dolls did. Why wouldn't the dolls look like people too? What made them different from the soldiers and the nutcracker? Was that the reason they didn’t talk? Because they didn’t have mouths? 

One of the soldiers gently grabbed Clara by the elbow and towed her towards the Sugar Plum Fairy.  The fairy was shaking her head at the nutcracker. “I’m sorry,” she said. “But the palace was attacked by the  R at  K ing,” the nutcracker hissed at that news, “and he stole the  Imagination.”

Clara frowned as the nutcracker cursed the Rat King. “What  _is_ the Imagination?” she asked. She’d heard the nutcracker mention that he wanted her to “recharge” it, and somehow it was stolen from the Sugar Plum Fairy’s palace—but what  _was_ it?

“The Imagination,” the Sugar Plum Fairy said somberly, “is the life of the land. Toyland did not occur naturally; it was created by the great Herr Drosselmeyer. Ever since, those that have the same power Drosselmeyer have come to Toyland to recharge the Imagination, so that this world can continue to exist.”

“So,” said the nutcracker darkly, “did that monster take it back to his castle?”

The Sugar Plum Fairy’s wings drooped as she bowed her head. “I’m afraid so. The Imagination now lies in the Land of the Rats.”

The gathered soldiers fell silent and the only noise was that of the toys, shifting uncomfortably. Clara looked around at all the sorrow and shook herself. “Then let’s go get it,” she said.

Suddenly she was the center of attention. “Go get it?” the nutcracker asked with a frown. “What do you mean?”

“Well,” Clara said reasonably with a gesture that (accidentally) spilled half of that horrible drink, “the rats had no trouble coming here, to steal it, right? What’s stopping us from going there to get it back?”

The Sugar Plum Fairy looked at Clara with a frown. “The rats don’t live in my land of sweets.”

Which meant the rats might actually have  _real_ food—or at least food that wasn’t sugar coated with sugar. “Of course they don’t,” Clara said. “If they  _lived_ here they wouldn't need to  _steal_ the imagination. So we just need to steal it back.” She crossed her arms, grinned at the nutcracker, and added, “Unless you’re  _afraid_ ?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Questions for the constructive critiques out there reading this (if anyone actually *is* reading this), does this flow all right? It feels choppy to me, but that could just be because I had to write it in pieces. Hmm.

**Author's Note:**

> Please comment on what you think of Aunt Anna's relationship with Clara. Or the decorations. Or even the suitability of the present. Let me rephrase: please comment.


End file.
